Slutboy
by hallelujah
Summary: Dick is young and inexperienced. He comes home one night and his mind wanders... to thoughts of Bruce, much to his horror. implied slash


Disclaimer: I don't own Dick (sadly) nor any other DC trademarks.

"Fine Bruce, I'll be more careful next time!" Christ, the man was so overprotective-- just because I wasn't wearing a line... I grumbled and shook my head. I'm 14 years old; I know how to handle myself. My hand rubbed my chin absently. Is that stubble? I puffed my chest out naturally, proud. _Yeah, that's right. I'm a man and I can forget my line if I want to, Bruce. _It wasn't really an accident anyway; I meant to leave it behind. The building wasn't so tall, He didn't have to go saving me and all—I hope nobody saw that. Bruce's scowl was enough to make me regret it though, even though I'm right. That man's facial expressions can skin a cat; he's so unlike my father. My father… John Grayson. John Deceased. John Doe. When he smiled all the knots I had inside would untwist themselves and I felt free to fall into the empty air.

_"Don't be afraid, Dick! We'll catch you."_ Encouragement. Him and the entire family trying to make me a man twenty feet in the air. Sixty when it's show time. I shook my head. Not the least emasculating place but definitely a change of pace. I jumped eventually, after all. After that it was easy. _"That's, it Dick!"_ Dick. Richard. Richard Jonathan Grayson. I hope that extra "Jonathan" means I have a bit of my father in me. I mean, I know half of my genes are his but I hope I turn out something like him. _"I love you, dad…" _With Bruce it's like starting over. With him I'm afraid again but not of falling, just of disappointing him.

I walk the long hallway to my room. It's always so dark and empty in here, always an echo. Sometimes I think it's nighttime in the middle of the day. I told Bruce I was nocturnal once, a few months after my parents died. I wanted to please him. That was the closest time I remember he ever came to laughing. I guess I'm nocturnal now. Maybe he needed me to tell him that so he could hand the mantle to me. Robin. After my birthday. Bruce never forgets my birthday, not anymore. Alfred used to wake him up and tell him before I got up, but I still knew he did it. It's not even my birthday anymore. It's D-day. R-day. The day his real son was born. Robin, otherwise known as Dick. Not the other way around.

You'd think my room was a warm sanctuary from the rest of the manor but it's not. Bruce decorated it for me when I moved in and I haven't the heart to change it. I've covered it with newspaper articles and magazine covers in psuedo-décor. They're mostly there for the educational elements. Thanks to Alfred the place is immaculate, institutional, almost. He'd gotten me used to the cleanliness of life and now imaginary cockroaches itched beneath my skin when it was anything less than perfect. All I need now is a hot shower and to get to bed. I'm the lamest 14-year old I've ever heard of, going to bed early and getting up even earlier. Thank you, Bruce. Sarcasm poisoned my tongue and threatened to flow down my throat until I stopped thinking. On second thought, skip the shower. I'm going straight to bed.

I sank into the covers, white skin amidst black. Black linens. Black Comforter. Black pillowcase. Everything was black. It was Bruce's idea—I told him I'd outgrown my boyhood décor and he'd changed it for me as a surprise. I came home one day and walked into my mini bat cave. I think Bruce was terribly proud of himself. I didn't really care though, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings by changing it. I wonder if Bruce's feelings can be hurt. Does Bruce have feelings? Wait, of course he does. My clothes were neatly folded on a chair, isosceles triangle lining up in perfect right angles. If they weren't all flawless, I would twitch until the urge to fix them overtook me.

I looked down on a whim, making out the shapes of my growing thighs beneath the covers, shifting perspective and getting farther and father away as I removed more of the blanket from myself. I touched the changing mass of flesh that is my right quad. It's growing, the muscle bulges beneath my fingers. It's strangely cold and the breeze startles me until I remember I'm wearing the boxers I got for Christmas last year. Red satin, remarkably thin yet strong. Bruce has several pairs in various shades, I'm told.

Meanwhile my hand slithers down my thigh, comparing the smooth fabric to my skin. I'm thinking of having them monogrammed. I'm thinking of having everything I own monogrammed someday, right down to the last towel. D. G. Dangerously Good-looking. Debonaire Guy. I let go of the blanket and it floats back down to my body, wrapping it in warmth once more. The sheets brush my sensitive skin and I shudder as a sudden jolt of pleasure runs through me. A picture flashes immediately in my mind. It is brief but I catch what it is and reach out deftly, trying to catch the phantom in the darkness. It's my imaginary girlfriend. Yes, I have an imaginary girlfriend. Only she's a lot of girls at once, the people I admire. A girl I saw on the street yesterday with the nicest blue eyes—now she has blue eyes. And black hair like Diana… I close my eyes, contented with the vision. I've never had a real girlfriend; I don't think I ever will. There's something about me that repels girls, I think. Maybe it's my hair. I run my hands through the thickness of it, my fingers getting tangled in the soft sleek follicles. Bruce and I both have black hair, we look like brothers. A flush of pride goes through my eyes and to my cheeks as the image of Bruce comes to my mind. I put the two of us side by side and compare. He's taller, of course. His shoulders are broader. Bruce was always a tall guy and I've been told I'm short for my age. And he's got that handsome half smile down—I'm working on it. My mind fills with thoughts of Bruce's eyes and Bruce's square rough hands and Bruce in combat. To my surprise and horror, my flesh prickles with pleasure and I get goose bumps. I know what this is—it's happened before. It's just blood rushing to the special spongy tissue—Alfred explained it all to me once in pseudo-sex ed. The vessels swell with blood and the flesh inflates. That's all it is. It'll go away, I tell myself.


End file.
